Mixed Doubles
by SimoneSez
Summary: When the agent working with Kelly and Scotty is murdered in Paris, Kelly becomes the prime suspect.  Crossover with The Avengers.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: I do not own any of the characters from either I Spy or The Avengers. I just thought it would be a good idea to introduce them. This is a story I wrote several years ago; hope you enjoy it._

**Paris, 1966**

"Scotty…"

Kelly's voice sounded preoccupied – which was certainly possible, even likely. He really got into his work. And when that work came in the form of a comely brunette with a killer backhand, so much the better. "Hey, how you doin', ace?" Scotty replied into the telephone, trying to sound casual. "She got the info we need?"

The high arched window of the opulent hotel room afforded a panoramic view of the splendor that was Paris. To Kelly Robinson, it all looked very far away. He cradled the receiver between his cheek and his shoulder, leaving both hands free to spread a sheet over the body on the bed. "Not exactly," he responded, lips tight with unspoken fury. The sheet showed a crimson stain where blood had already begun to soak through.

There was a _lot _of blood. Stabbing did that to a person. "You better get over here."

Regina Spenser, age twenty-eight, height five feet six inches… the statistics ran through Kelly's head like an endless litany. She was dead – murdered – and if that weren't enough, she'd been killed before she could pass on vital information.

Kelly and the beautiful British agent had been half of a mixed doubles match to be played at Versailles that weekend. They'd used the cover before – but this time, Regina wasn't going to make it. Tennis players weren't common targets for murder. Spies, however, were. And whether or not her killer had extracted any information from her before she had died, she had still returned her last serve.

Scotty arrived promptly, but having him there didn't change anything. He was simply one more pair of eyes to go through the hotel suite and make sure there was nothing 'sensitive' left around for the unfriendlies to get hold of – if they hadn't already. Only after the two agents made certain nothing in the room could lead the authorities to believe she had been anything other than the quintessential amateur tennis player would they contact the gendarmes.

It was more or less a courtesy at that point. Evidence had been disturbed, items in the room moved, some wiped clean – all those things the movies tell people never to do.

Once Kelly and Scotty were satisfied, they made themselves scarce, then placed their anonymous call from the pay phone at the local _tabac_. No use getting themselves involved, risking their cover and whatever was left of their assignment. There was still the little matter of the information Regina had been carrying. Someone had wanted to prevent her from relaying it – wanted it badly enough to kill her.

**London**

John Steed inspected his reflection in the gilt glass – impeccable, as always. Any little surprises life had in store for him were seldom presented in the mirror.

The knock on the door of his flat was no surprise either. He opened it for the equally impeccable Emma Peel, who greeted him with a slight smile as she made a minute adjustment to his collar.

"Sorry," he offered, re-examining his reflection in the glass.

"Perspective," she replied.

"Better?"

"Much."

"Mrs. Peel?"

"Yes?"

"We're needed."


	2. Chapter 2

"How many times do I have to go through this?"

"One more," Scott told his partner. "Look, I'm every bit as tired of hearing this as you are of talking about it."

"Wanna bet?" The tennis player turned from their hotel room window and took a deep breath. "All right. She asked me to meet her at nine a.m. I did that."

"Anyone know about it besides us?"

"Obviously." A few seconds later, Kelly re-thought his tone of voice, and his next words came out minus the fangs. "The door was ajar when I got upstairs. I called her name; nobody answered. I went inside, and there she was. I called you. You showed up. We swept the place, left, and called the cops. And everyone lived happily ever after."

It was consistent, if nothing else – consistently depressing. A good agent was dead, and they didn't have one decent lead. That was quite bad enough – but even worse was the knowledge that if one agent had been burned, that could well mean more soon would be. Including themselves.

Regina had been working to arrange a meeting between 'their side' and a reclusive scientist by the name of Jacques LeFond, who had yet to declare an allegiance to any particular faction. This specific gentleman was on everyone's A-list, however, by virtue of the fact that he had recently developed a handy device that under certain conditions rendered radar systems useless. Needless to say, one or two other parties were interested in getting to know Dr. LeFond. Regina had been a valuable go-between, and her death created a major blind spot in their assignment.

"So we don't know who killed her. We also don't know when or where we're supposed to hook up with this guy LeFond. Not to mention that we don't even know where LeFond is." Alexander Scott ticked off their numerous problems with remarkable grace under pressure.

"We do know one thing," Kelly reminded him.

"What's that?"

"Things can only improve."

"Thank you, Pollyanna."

Kelly managed a half-hearted grin, the secret agent's best friend, as he went to answer a knock on the door. "I got it."

"You sure about that?"

"I know how to answer a door."

The two _gendarmes_ standing in the hallway weren't smiling. "You're right, Scotty, it's for you." Kelly stepped aside so Scott could operate – the Rhodes Scholar was a linguist with a command of more languages than Kelly cared to count. "I can sense that your remarkable diplomatic talents are called for in this instance."

"You can sense that you don't remember six words of high school French," Scott parried.

"In point of fact, I do. However, they are not six words these gentlemen would be inclined to respond to in a favorable manner. Trust me."

"You flatter yourself."

However, Scott barely got _bonjour _out of his mouth before the _gendarmes_ waved him aside. "Not necessary, _monsieur_," one of them told him. "We speak English quite well."

"Better than Kelly's French, for sure," Scott affirmed. "What can we do for you gentlemen?"

They returned his casual manner with cool indifference. "We wish to speak to _Monsieur _Robinson regarding his association with _Mademoiselle _Regina Spenser."

Of course, they'd known this was coming. The tournament had been well-publicized, and it was only a matter of time before the constabulatory showed up to find out what Kelly was to Regina. He'd had time to put together a few innocuous answers to anticipated questions, making it a little easier to feign complete surprise when they would 'inform' him of her death in a minute. "Don't tell me Reggie's in hot water with the cops," Kelly said. "If I told her once, I told her a thousand times, don't tear up parking tickets."

"This is considerably more serious, _monsieur,_" one officer replied, his tone implying he had little or no patience with flip American athletes. "_Mademoiselle _Spenser was found dead this morning in her room at _l'Hôtel Roi-Soleil_."

This was Kelly's big moment, and he played it. Even Scott was impressed by the expression of shock he manifested. "What…?" he asked, looking from the inspector's face to Scotty's and back again. "There's got to be some mistake…"

"No mistake, _monsieur. _I have just come from the hotel. _Mademoiselle _Spenser was murdered last night."

"Well, the least you could do is break it to a guy gently," Scott protested. "You must know Kelly and Regina were friends. You fellas always bust in with bad news like Jimmy Cagney in a bad gangster flick?"

A curt shake of the head. "No, _monsieur_, this is not the way we normally inform a victim's associates of a death. It is the way we begin our interrogation of a suspect."

"_Suspect_?" This time, Kelly's shock wasn't manufactured. "You think _I_ had something to do with it?"

"That is what I said."

"Yeah, man, I know that's what you said, but…" What had they missed? What had led the police to make this kind of accusation? "You mind tellin' me _why_?"

"I would prefer to ask the questions."

"And _I_ would prefer not to be a suspect in a murder," Kelly shot back. "Seems I don't have a lot of say in the matter, though."

"Cool it, Kel," Scotty advised. "They're just doing their job."

But he was troubled, too. They'd swept Regina's room. This wasn't supposed to happen. They'd been too careful. What had gone wrong?

00o00

"It seems fairly obvious," was Emma Peel's typically candid assessment of the situation. She stepped aside so the coroner's aides could remove the stretcher bearing the body of Regina Spenser. "You say Mr. Robinson was seen entering Miss Spenser's room?"

The young bellman, looking oddly pallid at the sight of the retreating stretcher and its burden, swallowed hard and nodded. "_Oui, madame. _This morning. I was delivering a tray to this floor. I saw him."

"And you're certain it was Mr. Robinson?" Steed inquired.

"_Oui, monsieur._"

The photograph of Robinson and Spenser on the front page of the morning newspaper had come in handy. Not only did the bellman recall seeing Robinson, but also the clerk at the front desk had told of seeing the two of them together in the dining room the evening before. "Robinson's got quite a reputation," Mrs. Peel mused.

"Tennis?" Steed asked.

"That, too. I was thinking more in terms of considering himself somewhat the ladies' man."

"Indeed. As you say, it seems fairly obvious."

"Apparently the gendarmes feel similarly." Still, she didn't sound quite satisfied. "A crime of passion?"

"Possibly." Her companion continued to peruse the suite in search of anything that might have been missed. "Spenser was one of our best. I'd like to think she'd be immune to that sort of thing… dubious American charms, and all that. She had a job to do."

"Now we'll never know if she completed it." Mrs. Peel turned to face him. "We'll never know if she made contact with Dr. LeFond."

"Best we try to find out."

"Where do you suggest we begin?"

"Would you like to talk to Robinson?"

She frowned slightly. "Not particularly."

"A disagreeable job, Mrs. Peel," Steed nodded in agreement. "However… someone's got to do it."


	3. Chapter 3

Kelly Robinson was in his second hour of being grilled by the local police – an activity he unfavorably compared to having multiple root-canals performed by a blind dentist. "I told you," he said stiffly, his voice taut with impatience and fatigue. "And told you. And then I think I told you again. Yes, I knew Regina Spenser. We played together once before, at Forest Hills, maybe two years ago. I didn't kill her. I don't know who did."

"Yes, _monsieur, _you told us." The inspector closed his notebook. "Perhaps soon, you will tell us the truth. At that time, I would like to have you start by admitting you were in _Mademoiselle _Spenser's room this morning. We will be going now. You will hear from us again soon."

"No particular rush," Kelly said under his breath as the two men showed themselves to the door.

"Well, Kel, before this morning, I thought it might be kind of a dull weekend," Scott observed. "Thank you for making it infinitely more interesting."

"They can't convict me for something I didn't do."

"We're not in the States now, Kel."

"We're not in the Kremlin, either."

Scotty went to the window and pulled the heavily embroidered drapes to one side, giving him a clear view of the square below. "Come take a look at this."

Kelly cast an uninterested glance in the general direction of the window. "Statue. Fountain. Cars. Nice."

"Two hundred years ago, that was the site of the most popular quick-weight-loss program in France."

"Health spa?"

"Guillotine." Scott let the drapes fall back into place. "My guess is that one or two of those people probably said just what you're saying now."

"Thanks, Scotty, you've taken away all my nagging worries – and turned them into blind panic."

"If France's answer to Boston Blackie finds out we're undercover operatives, you and I both might end up out there with our collars unbuttoned the hard way."

"Get out of here; they don't do that anymore."

But the political implications were all too clear. The French government would have no reason to look kindly on two American spies infiltrating their political structure, allegedly murdering British subjects and enticing their own scientists to jump ship and emigrate to the United States.

00o00

Kelly and his 'trainer' headed for the tennis club, hoping to turn up something – anything – that might yield a lead. Although the bad news had already reached the players at Versailles, it seemed the gendarmes' train of thought hadn't; it didn't appear common knowledge that Kelly was a suspect in Regina's death, and no one so much as looked at him crossways.

"Looks like the Keystone Kops haven't shared their suspicions with anybody around here," Kelly remarked as he and Scott exited the equipment room and headed for the courts.

"Maybe not, but their presence is nonetheless keenly felt." Scotty didn't even have to gesture with his eyes; he knew Kelly had also seen the rather conspicuous tail the French police had apparently tacked onto them. This was one guy who'd read too many Dick Tracy comics; there was no way you could miss him. "Know what I mean?"

"I do indeed."

"Want to lose him?"

Kelly shook his head. "Couldn't live with myself. The guy probably needs us to help him find his way back to the hotel."

"Ten _francs _says he could do it himself."

"Okay, you're on. I'll match your ten, and throw in five that say nobody he knows ever sees him again." They shook hands on the wager and continued on their way towards the courts.

Emma Peel pulled up to the front gates in her rented MG, only too glad to allow the parking valet to see to the car's safe-keeping. She was on the continent now, and in no way was that more apparent than the fact that she'd just defied her very nature to drive several miles on what she firmly believed to be the wrong side of the road. She'd always prided herself on her adaptability, her capacity to adjust to nearly any situation and cope with a wide variety of variables with competence and calm – but _that _was asking too much, even of her. Everyone had limits.

Kelly Robinson was easy enough for her to spot. Mrs. Peel had already formed an opinion of him, and although it was none too favorable, she did her best to keep an open mind. He'd been lying about being in Regina's room – and although that in itself wasn't enough to convict him of murder, it was more than enough to cast aspersions on his veracity. The man obviously had something to hide.

As she crossed the wide expanse of lawn and gardens, Mrs. Peel was unaware that she was the object of much scrutiny from the cover of a nearby bank of shrubbery. However, the tell-tale glint of sunlight off the lenses of a pair of binoculars was clearly visible from the courts.

Kelly hit one well over Scotty's head – on purpose; their prearranged signal that something was going on and they needed to confer. Scott obligingly jogged to the net to meet his partner on the pretense of berating him on his serve. "Nice shot," he congratulated Robinson. "You mind goin' out to the parking lot to pick it up?"

"Sun was in my eyes," Kelly replied.

"Do tell."

"Actually, I'm not kidding. I just happened to notice it reflecting off a rather interesting phenomenon over in that bunch of bushes."

"Really?" Scott nodded casually, resisting the natural impulse to turn around and check it out.

Kelly bounced a tennis ball on his racquet. "I kid you not. A pair of field glasses, I'd say."

"Probably get a better view from the stands, wouldn't you think?"

"I would."

"You got any idea what a guy in the bushes with binocs would be lookin' at?"

Kelly was about to say he didn't have a clue – until he noticed the shapely silhouette of Emma Peel on the sideline. The tennis ball bounced off his racquet and rolled away languidly. "I know what I'd be lookin' at if _I _had a pair."

Mrs. Peel stopped the runaway ball with one foot and bent to scoop it up as Kelly approached her. "Lose something?" she inquired.

"Almost."

"You must be more careful." She tossed the ball to him, and he caught it neatly.

"Absolutely. Been thinkin' of having it put on a long string so I can just pull it back when I drop it."

"Innovative."

"That's me." Yes, she was beautiful – and she had a veneer a diamond wouldn't scratch. Kelly had expected to get more mileage out of his movie-star smile, athletic physique, and flawless tan, but he concealed his disappointment. "Kelly Robinson."

"Emma Peel."

"Very nice to meet you, Miss…"

"Mrs."

Damn. First a murder, with him a suspect, then someone in the bushes with binoculars, and now this. It just wasn't his day. "You a tennis fan, Mrs. Peel?"

"Of sorts," she nodded.

"This is the place to be, then."

"I would have thought so, until I saw your last shot."

Ouch. And double-damn. Everything this woman said was cordial to a fault, delivered with a crisp British accent that could be sold by the pound, not to mention a truly extraordinary smile. Yet there was enough cozy warmth in that tone of hers to lay a film of ice on the surface of the sun. "Well, maybe you should stick around for a while and see if I get any better," he parried, neatly deflecting her remark and sending it back over the net. This one definitely was an opponent, not a spectator.

Scotty joined them, bringing along his usual impeccable finesse. "Strike one, ace," he told Kelly with a not-so-subtle grin, extending his hand to their audience of one. "I'm Alexander Scott."

She took his hand smoothly. "Emma Peel."

"Nice to meet you. London, am I right?"

"You are. And you?"

"Philadelphia… but I spent some time at Oxford between there and here."

That impressed her. Kelly briefly considered his chances of being equally impressive, but his attention was diverted when, from the corner of his eye, he again saw the wink of sunlight on metal and glass. Whoever was hiding in the hedge hadn't given up yet; he was still focused on the three of them.

Apparently Scotty hadn't seen it – but Emma Peel had. Kelly saw her eyes dart reflexively in the direction of the flash of light. The implications obviously interested her, too, although she didn't give any deliberate outward indication that she'd even noticed it.

Scotty had barely begun a discussion of Old English architecture when she interrupted him. "I'm so sorry… I believe I see someone I know. Would you excuse me?"

Without waiting for a response, she was gone as quickly as she'd arrived, with the distinctly quickened step of one who had seem more than just an old friend on the other side of the tennis court. "Something I said?" Scott wondered out loud.

"I don't think so, man," Kelly replied musingly. "She just seemed awfully interested in our peeping tom in the bushes over there."

"Friend of hers?"

"Could be."

"Maybe she could do worse than you."

"Maybe English architecture bores her to tears."

"Not possible. Fascinating stuff."

By the time Mrs. Peel had made her roundabout way to the hedge to check things out, there was no one to be found skulking there. A footprint or two in the soft earth proved she hadn't imagined things, but that was small consolation. And she was certain Robinson had noticed that brief flash as well. He hadn't make a show of it – but neither had he seemed surprised.


	4. Chapter 4

"Is he protecting someone?" Steed suggested.

"I'm not sure." Mrs. Peel accepted the cognac he offered her, and they touched glasses with a gentle bell-like ring. "He's difficult to read. Appeared quite the playboy with me at first, then completely serious after we both saw the flash of light from the hedge. And I _know _he saw it." She sipped her drink, savoring it. "Marvelous."

Their adjoining suites at _Le Palais _afforded a picture-postcard view of the Eiffel Tower and the Seine. Autos, buses, and taxis tore through the streets below, creating a chaotic blend of sounds quite different from the quieter London side avenues they were accustomed to.

Steed went to the window and closed it, blocking out the traffic noises. "Remarkable. How do they ever manage it?"

"I'm sure I don't know. Just the drive to Versailles was like something out of a nightmare, all those cars on the right. Or should I say _wrong._"

"I'll drive tomorrow," he offered.

"Where to?"

"We're to meet up with two American operatives and join forces on this. Edict from the top."

"I'm not sure I like the sound of that."

"Now that we know we're being watched, I quite agree."

"You as well?"

Steed nodded almost disinterestedly as he took a seat on the divan. "Spotted him in my rear-view mirror."

"You lost him, I presume."

"Quite neatly. Poor devil is probably still driving 'round and 'round the _Place de l'Etoile_, wondering what became of me."

"Why Americans?"

"Regina Spenser was working closely with this particular team. She was supposed to arrange a time and place for them to meet with our friend Dr. LeFond. She's their loss as well as ours." He paused, appreciating the many attributes of the cognac. "You're right; this _is _marvelous."

"I don't suppose it matters," she said. "After all, we're on the same side. Where are we to meet these Americans?"

"Notre Dame Cathedral, tomorrow at noon."

"And the recognition code?"

He gave her a smile. "Classic literature, Mrs. Peel. You'll enjoy this."

00o00

"Sanctuary?" Kelly stared up at the towers of Notre Dame Cathedral. A larger, greyer, more imposing structure might exist somewhere else in France, but it was a longshot. This one almost definitely took the cake. "You gotta be kidding."

"No joke," Scotty assured him, shaking his head. "I know you never read the book, but you must've seen one of the movies, man. You know, the hunchback slings the gypsy girl over his shoulder and carries her off… hey, maybe you could take a few pointers."

"I did read the book, I'll have you know, and I'm fully aware of the origins of the word, thank you very much." Kelly checked his watch. "Five of. I hope the English are prompt. I don't see why they think we need their help anyway."

"Regina was their agent. And may I remind you, Mr. All-American Super-Spy, that you yourself are a suspect in her murder. It's a vague possibility the powers that be aren't too thrilled with the way we've pulled this off so far and figure we might need some help."

"Yeah, I know, I know…" Kelly broke off as, in the midst of the crowd milling around the parvis, he spotted a familiar attractive face. "Uh oh, here comes trouble."

The two British agents spotted their counterparts in the next second. "That's Robinson, isn't it?" Steed asked.

"Yes," Mrs. Peel frowned. "I wonder what he's doing here."

Several flights of stairs led down to a wide ledge along the River Seine, which was walled by stone quays thirty feet high around the island on which Notre Dame de Paris sat. The British agents made their way down the nearest set of steps, moving as quickly and unobtrusively as possible. They didn't need an audience for this rendezvous – and particularly not their prime suspect.

Kelly and Scott also moved quickly, out of sight of the pavilion and down the opposite flight of stone steps to the promenade by the river. "This is it," Scotty told his partner when they reached the bottom.

Robinson glanced at his watch again. "Noon on the button. So where are they?"

Steed and Mrs. Peel were about halfway down when they realized Kelly and Scott were waiting for them at the bottom. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Steed asked.

"You don't suppose…"

They stopped short as the two Americans looked up and realized they had company. "No…" Kelly moaned under his breath, eye to eye with a not-so-pleased-either Emma Peel. "Oh, come on… _no_…"

"Sanctuary?" Scotty asked in disbelief.

"So they tell me," Steed affirmed a bit uneasily. "My name is John Steed. And I take it you gentlemen are Domino."

"This has gotta be a nightmare," Kelly said with a slow shake of his head.

"Want me to pinch you?" Scott offered.

"You do, and it's the _last _thing you do."

"I take it, then, that you did _not _kill Regina Spenser," Mrs. Peel conjectured, meeting Kelly's gaze. "I suppose it's encouraging to have that much straightened out, at least."

"You're tellin' me," Robinson replied. "Good to know somebody believes me."

"I mostly did," his partner reminded him.

"Thanks."

An intriguing, if disconcerting, turn of events. The British agents jointed the Americans at the bottom of the steps, with guarded reserve on both sides. Orders were orders. But that didn't meant that any of them had to be happy about it. A few things begun to make more sense, though, such as…

"You saw the reflection too," Kelly said to Emma Peel. "Over in the bushes. Field glasses."

"Probably," she agreed. "But by the time I got there, only a couple of footprints were waiting. Not much to go on."

"Well, we know he has feet," Scott put in.

"Doesn't narrow the field appreciably," Steed remarked. "But granted, it's a start."

"You'll be needing a new tennis partner," Mrs. Peel told Kelly.

"Yeah, I suppose."

"I should say definitely, if you still expect to play in the tournament."

"Yes, ma'am, whatever you say."

"I dislike pointing out the obvious."

Kelly bristled. "Yeah, well, _I _kind of dislike hearing it. Scotty and I were already making plans about which way to go with this."

"We were?" Scott asked with genuine surprise. "I sleep through another riveting several hours of deep investigative work again?" The look Kelly gave him was worth a thousand words, none of them polite ones. "Actually, I think what my esteemed partner is trying to say is that we're not exactly used to working this way. We've been together a long time, and we pretty much do our own thing. It works for us."

"It's done wonderfully well so far," Mrs. Peel observed.

"Look, lady…"

"In this instance, I'm afraid we're more or less stuck with one another," Steed pointed out.

Uncanny how well he could derail a mutually distasteful situation with such affability. The British agents weren't any happier about their predicament, if the friction between Mrs. Peel and Robinson were any indication. "Looks that way," Kelly agreed. "Well, there's a solution. We'll just have to clean up this assignment in record time."

"I quite agree," Mrs. Peel nodded.

"Agree…" Kelly repeated with a thin smile. "Scotty, she _agreed _with me… I don't know what to say."

"Hey, Kel, this is consecrated ground. Miracles happen here all the time. If it happens again, maybe they'll put up another statue."

As he spoke, Kelly turned and looked up toward the top of the solid stone wall at their backs. "Hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Before the American could elaborate, he pulled Scotty with him as he threw himself back, flush against the stone wall – also giving a warning shout to the British agents who did the same. They moved back just before a good-sized chunk of the wall plummeted to the ground in the midst of where the four of them had been standing scant seconds before.

Kelly and Scott darted up the stairs to the right, and Steed and Mrs. Peel took the flight to the left. All four reached the same conclusion at the top: with hundreds of people strolling through the parvis in front of the cathedral, there was no way to determine who had just tried to kill them.

Kelly shoved aside the heavy growth of shrubbery spreading rampant over the low wall, and pulled out a crowbar. "Someone's onto us."

"You don't say," Mrs. Peel commented sharply.

"You see anyone?"

"I see a lot of anyones," Scott nodded as he looked around. "Hundreds. If you're asking me do I see the anyone who did it, the answer is no, I do not."

"The plot thickens," Steed remarked.

"Don't you ever get rattled?" Kelly demanded, turning on him. "There's somebody around here trying to knock us off with very large and heavy falling objects, Mr. Steed. Doesn't that worry you at all?"

"I assure you Mr. Robinson, I fully recognize the gravity. Thirty-two feet per second per second, as I recall." He glanced at Mrs. Peel for corroboration.

She shook her head slightly. "Velocity," she corrected with her usual staccato charm. "Time rate of linear motion in a given direction. In this case, _down._"

"My mistake."

Kelly dropped the crowbar back into the bushes. "Nuts," he remarked under his breath.

"Physics," Scotty amended.

"I mean _them. Both _of 'em."


	5. Chapter 5

Not even nightfall could truly darken _la ville lumière_; the City of Light shone brightly and boldly in spite of the late hour. Several miles to the east, at the brilliantly illuminated Palace of Versailles, a lone guard walked his post outside the equipment room. The morning's tennis tournament would begin at nine, and all reports promised fair weather, the sunshine befitting the legacy of the Sun King whose royal palace was the site of the international event. Louis himself would have been pleased. Everything was proceeding according to plan.

On the surface, perhaps. For inside the equipment room, under cover of a tarpaulin, not all was well.

A shadowy figure held a knife in one practiced hand, and cut carefully into the tennis ball in the other. The knife hand then inserted a device into the ball, securing it to the inside surface with some adhesive.

No larger than a chestnut, the contact explosive was powerful enough to blow anything withing a six-foot radius to kingdom come – palatial analogy entirely coincidental. Either a bounce or a direct hit would do – and the American tennis player/spy would meet an untimely, if colorful, end. In front of hundreds of spectators, no less.

Carefully, the secretive figure closed the rubber shell over the device – _very _carefully. Then the fabric outer covering, gently, gently… a little more glue, and _voilà. _No one would be able to tell this ball from any other. No ticking, even. Extremely sophisticated equipment.

All that remained was to transfer the ball to Robinson's locker. A mere technicality, accomplished with the crudest of lock picks. Less trouble, certainly, than the lock of Regina Spenser's hotel room door had been.

Once the ball was in the equipment bag and the locker carefully closed, the intruder left the area as quietly and as unnoticed as he had entered.

00o00

"So, what do you think?" Kelly asked.

It was early to be at the palace, since the actual play wouldn't start for a good two hours yet. However, it was the perfect time to examine the area for any suspicious glints of sunlight or unidentified falling objects, long before the crowds started pouring in and things got impossibly hectic. Robinson removed his racquet from his locker. "Of our new associates, I mean. Kind of make you nostalgic for the Revolutionary War, don't they?"

Scott shook his head slowly. "I dunno, Kel. A guy who wears a bowler to a tennis match and carries an umbrella when it's not raining is kind of an enigma to me."

"True, true." Kelly gave the racquet a few lazy swings. "I wonder what the ultimately correct and ever-popular Mrs. Peel will be dolled up in for the occasion."

"How's this?"

Both men turned at the sound of her voice. Her white tennis outfit was flattering, to say the least – and enticing, to say the most. "Am I properly 'dolled up', as you put it?"

"My new partner." Kelly's shoulders slumped noticeably. "Outstanding. Can you even _play _tennis? This is the kind you do on a court, not on a tabletop."

"Thank you, I do have a working knowledge of the rules."

"Great! Maybe you can give Kelly a few pointers," Scott put in.

"On a great many more subjects than tennis, I daresay."

"This is gonna be one long weekend," Kelly affirmed, setting his jaw and willing himself not to get any angrier than he already was. "Now look, I…"

"I should think we might want to make ourselves visible. We're obviously targets, it's reasonable to assume whomever tried to discourage us yesterday at the cathedral will try again. They know where to find you."

"Actually, my dear Mrs. Peel, I found the incident at Notre Dame quite discouraging indeed. I always feel that way when someone tries to make me several feet shorter rather suddenly." Kelly hoisted his equipment bag over his shoulder. Obviously, there was no putting her off this idea. "I also find it discouraging that they 'know where to find me', as you put it."

"How would _you _put it?"

"Sitting duck?" Scott suggested.

"Colorful," Kelly nodded. "Thank you very much."

The courts were deserted at that early hour. Deserted, that is, except for one lone gardener armed with a hoe, who worked diligently around the base of a nearby privet hedge while whistling '_La Marseillaise_.'.

Also in the vicinity, armed with a camera, John Steed attempted to resemble an average tourist. The most serious flaw in his masquerade was his choice of wardrobe. As Scotty had mentioned earlier, there were very few people who dressed for a tennis match as they would for high tea. And as for the umbrella… well, there wasn't a cloud in the sky.

"Good morning," Steed greeted the two Americans as they and Mrs. Peel arrived on the court. "I see our British/American mixed doubles team is looking quite nicely balanced again. Burned a bit of the midnight oil getting up to par."

"There's a court at your hotel?" Scott asked.

"Unfortunately, no. But Mrs. Peel being the resourceful type, she found banging the ball down the corridor against the doors of the lift to be a satisfactory substitute."

"It may have been a bit of a racket," the woman allowed.

"Also a bit of a shock to that elderly couple getting off on our floor," her compatriot reminded her. "Just as the doors opened, you called thirty-all and…"

"I said I was sorry."

"Okay, this is all very interesting, but what do you say we play a little tennis, huh?" Kelly set his bag down on the sideline. "Scotty, keep an eye on the perimeter. I don't mind letting them know where we are, but I draw the line at being the bulls-eye." He tossed her two tennis balls. "Let's see what you're made of."

She caught both balls neatly and strolled to center court. Once in position, she set one ball down on the baseline and raised the other for her serve. It wasn't a particularly masterful swing, but it was a fair shot, and easily made it over the net. Kelly returned it, and the woman sent it back to him again.

"Not bad," Scotty remarked to Steed as they watched from the sideline. "She been playing long?"

Steed glanced at his watch. "Nearly ten hours, I should think. Rather a quick study, wouldn't you say?"

Rather. Even Kelly had to acknowledge his new partner had more prowess than he'd given her credit for. They continued for several minutes, both getting more and more aggressive in their play, until it finally became a real contest, with each trying to force the other to overextend.

The small brown terrier who raced across the court, neatly snapped up the ball Mrs. Peel had deposited on the baseline, and vanished into the hedges with it was at fault for ending the rally; she missed her shot while trying to miss the dog, and the ball in play bounced off the rim of her racquet and entangled itself in the net.

"How does one score something like that?" she called across the net.

"Single fault," her opponent replied. "_His._"

They met at the net. "I can assume, then, that you are satisfied with my ability?" Mrs. Peel inquired with a playful elevation of her eyebrows.

"Yeah, I'm satisfied. Amazed, even. Would it make any difference if I said I wasn't?"

"Unlikely."

Kelly almost managed a smile. "Mrs. Peel, I do believe I'm getting used to you."

"You flatter me."

"Purely accidental, I assure you. Won't happen again." He risked what remained of his ego and _did _smile at her then – and to his immense satisfaction, she smiled back. "So, except for a canine kleptomaniac, we're in good shape here. Nobody's even dropped a single house on us all this time we've been out here in the open."

"Perhaps a look 'round the grounds would liven things up."

"I'm game if you are."

As soon as they started back to the clubhouse, the terrier emerged from his hiding place and began to dig a rather unsightly hole at center court. Most gardeners would strenuously object to such rudeness – and Victor deMaulle was no exception. When he saw the dog drop the tennis ball into the hole, he was filled with a righteous indignation only a gardener whose careful work is being destroyed scant hours before an international event can possibly muster.

"_Non!_" Victor ran toward the terrier, who kicked a few clumps of sod over the evidence, then took off as though the wrath of God were after tim. This dog had apparently been chased before, and was aware of the potential consequences. He quickly made himself scarce.

Mumbling curses, the gardener shook his head furiously over the damage to the court, then raised the flat surface of his hoe to tamp down the displaced sod, stopping only when he heard his name called from nearby.

It was François, the head groundsman – and he meant _now. _Victor, hoe in hand, proceeded briskly to find out what was the matter this time. The privet hedge had sprung some unsightly and loathsome growth during his thirty-second absence? It took very little to upset François.

By eight-thirty, the stands were packed with spectators. Kelly Robinson and Emma Peel were to play the team of Johann Gustaf and Kriste van Daam, representing Austria and the Netherlands respectively, and the four players hastened out to the court to cater to the press before their match. Most of the questions fired at them were in French, and Kelly listened to Mrs. Peel reply in the language of the land without waiting for an interpreter to come to her assistance.

She was something, he mused. He wasn't quite sure _what_ – but Emma Peel was definitely something _else._

He was given a reprieve from the constant nodding and smiling as if he understood every word when the press decided to get a few shots of the players in action. As Kelly sent the ball over the net to Gustaf, he couldn't help noticing an irregularity at center court, just in front of the net. They'd have to smooth that out before the real play commenced.

The four went easy on each other, keeping the ball in play for the benefit of the shutterbugs from the wire services who queued on the sidelines. Gustaf was particularly colorful: bluntly put, he liked to show off. While the cameras were on him, his mind was only on what he looked like – and so it was no real surprise when he missed the shot that ended the brief rally.

"Fifteen," Kelly remarked to his satisfied partner as he joined her at the net to pose for more pictures.

"Or it would be, if this weren't merely a warm-up," she replied.

"They keep those cameras clicking, and ol' Gustaf'll be too busy making sure his best side's always showing to pay any attention to the game. We might actually win."

The telephoto lens on Steed's camera afforded him a better than average view, and he brought the puzzling lump at center court into crisper focus. It was just a few feet from where Mrs. Peel stood with Kelly Robinson. It didn't make sense, and that bothered him. He wasn't sure what it was – and that bothered him too. He knew he didn't like it.

Gustaf, still displaying his television-commercial smile, vaulted the net for the benefit of the press cameras. He had no right to do that, given the fact that he had just faulted the point to the opposing team.

It was an expensive breach of courtesy.

When Gustaf's full weight came down on the buried explosive, the detonation was enough to knock those standing nearby clear off their feet. Barely ten feet away, Kelly and Mrs. Peel both instinctively hit the court face-down, with their arms over their heads. As charred clumps of grass rained down on them, singeing their arms and legs, the horrified crowd of spectators reacted with screams of panic. Few of the _bourgeoisie _had ever before seen a man die right in front of their eyes.

The first thing Kelly saw was the body of Johann Gustaf over by the net, then he spotted the shallow, blackened crater in the turf beside it. "You all right?" he asked Emma Peel as she tentatively uncrossed her arms and pulled herself up a few inches.

She nodded. "Apparently…" Her eyes found Gustaf, then focused on Kelly. "You?"

"Yeah, I think so." Better than Gustaf, at any rate. He didn't need a closer look to tell him the man was dead. He pulled himself to his knees and extended a hand to Mrs. Peel.

Then Steed was there as well. "Any damage?" he inquired, taking her arm.

She shook her head. "To me, no. To the court, most definitely."

"Where's Scotty?" Kelly asked.

Scott had also been on his way to make sure his partner and Mrs. Peel were unhurt when, from the corner of one eye, he'd caught sight of a man running full-tilt away from the scene of the explosion. Something in the man's stride told him the fellow wasn't reacting to the scenario on the court in a humanitarian way; his gait seemed fueled by panic, and the determination to make himself scarce as fast as possible.

When another glance toward the court told him the surviving players were already pulling themselves to their feet, Scotty opted for the chase.

Halfway up a flight of marble steps leading to the terrace of the upper garden, he caught up with the fleeing figure. A quick tackle reminiscent of his football days brought the man down, but a sudden heel to the jaw reminded him more of a bad martial arts film he'd once suffered through in a seedy dive in West Philly called the Empire Cinema. He lost his balance at the top of the stairs for just a split second, falling to one side; it was long enough to give the other man enough extra time to disappear around the corner of one of the stone statues.

By the time Scotty regained his footing and resumed the chase, the stranger was nowhere to be found.

The laminated card caught on a rose bush was the sort laborers wore in the workplace. Scott turned it over thoughtfully, plucking a few shredded leaves from the broken clip. The man who'd lost it was an employee of the _Musée Grévin. _His name was Maurice.

And – son of a gun – Maurice's picture bore a striking resemblance to the fellow who'd just tried to punch his lights out a minute ago.

Maybe he should try to return the favor. Personally.


	6. Chapter 6

_Le Musée Grévin_, on Boulevard Montmartre, boasted the most complete collection of French historical figures in Paris. Napoleon, Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette – they were all there, all deftly sculpted in wax, in such incredible detail that they almost appeared to be breathing. "So, we're in the market for a guy named Maurice, who wears cheap shoes," Scotty summed up as the four agents entered the main gallery.

Two large halls extended off the main salon, both lit primarily by small, dim spotlights focused on the exhibits within. Kelly pointed toward the one on the left. "You take the high road, and we'll take the low road," he told the British team.

"_Cabinet Fantastique_," Emma Peel read from the tableau above the vaulted portal. She raised an appealingly arched eyebrow. "The Chamber of Horrors."

There had been questions at Versailles – plenty of them. Only after Kelly and Mrs. Peel had been duly checked out by a physician had they been permitted to leave the grounds, and then only on the pretense of wanting to return to their hotels to try and recover from the traumatic events of the morning. Mrs. Peel had effectively faked a faint to speed things along – and even as Kelly had chivalrously moved to catch her, he was aware that she was about as prone to passing out from shock as Gustav Eiffel had been to acrophobia. It was all he could do to keep from laughing. But it had done the trick.

The _sous-sol _where Kelly and Scotty found themselves a few moments later depicted a dozen-odd scenarios of the Revolution, all in a semi-circular gallery off the corridor. They stopped in front of the first display, doing their best to appear to be average American tourists there only to admire and appreciate the spectacle of French history laid out before them.

"Homey," Scotty remarked.

"Yeah, if you're Jack the Ripper," Kelly agreed.

The display showed Marie Antoinette in the Royal Palace, and might have been a richly elegant tableau had there not been a disembodied head mounted on a sword visible outside the Queen's parlor window – which, understandably, was causing her some anxiety. "That's why they called it the Revolution, man," Scotty reminded his partner. "Lots of violence, you know?" He glanced over his shoulder.

Nobody around. Maybe there should have been. Maybe not. He couldn't help it; this place gave him the creeps.

Steed and Mrs. Peel found the _Cabinet Fantastique _presided over by a hulking figure in a black hood, who stood guard at the doorway. "Bit of the old realism here," Steed remarked as he inspected the double-edged axe in the figure's heavily-gloved hands.

"Let's hope there's a limit," his companion replied, moving on.

"Now, here's an intriguing bit of history." He rejoined her in front of a replica of the bowels of the _Prison Saint-Lazare_. An emaciated figure draped in rags extended his twisted, desperate claw of a hand from the cage that served as his cell in the rat-infested cellar. "Puts me in mind of my dormitory room third-form year." Steed proceeded to the next recess in the dark wall, which was curtained off by deep purple drapes. A sign on the display read _Fermé. _He nudged the heavy velvet curtain aside with the tip of his umbrella, but could see nothing in the unlighted recess.

"So much for the chamber of horrors." Mrs. Peel joined him. "I didn't notice anything out of place, did you?"

"A very large, ostentatious candle factory, if you ask me. Perhaps Robinson and Scott have had better luck." He gestured for his partner to precede him towards the hazily illuminated _Sortie _sign a few feet to their right. "After you."

"I wonder…" she mused as she started toward the exit. "Doesn't it seem to you as though we're being run 'round in circles? First the incident at Notre Dame, then the explosion… we're all obviously targets, yet there's been no contact with Dr. LeFond. I…"

She broke off, stopping just short of the empty doorway. "There was a figure standing here when we came in, wasn't there? An executioner, wearing a black hood." She turned around. "Remember, Steed?"

The gallery was empty.

She ran back to the curtained exhibit and tore the drapes aside. Nothing but a blank wall.

At least, it _looked _like a blank wall. She felt around in the cloying darkness, trying to see if there was some sort of catch or spring, anything that might indicate a hidden doorway. Nothing but solid, unyielding brick met her desperate fingertips. Yet it was the only possible way Steed could have vanished from the gallery.

A sound behind her made her turn; someone was coming. She flattened herself against the wall of the empty recess and made sure the draperies hid her from view.

Moments later, she was grabbed right through the curtain, and dragged bodily from the vacant display area. Thinking quickly, she delivered a rib-bruising blow with one elbow, spun around when her assailant's grip loosened, and flung him up against the wall, fighting to get herself dis-entangled from the heavy draperies before he could recover and come at her again.

"Ow!" The protest was in a too-familiar voice. "Hey, knock it off!"

Disheveled, stunned, and rather badly bruised in several places, Kelly Robinson held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I didn't know it was you! Honest! I saw the curtain move, and I just…" Suddenly realizing their close proximity, he managed a lopsided grin. "On second thought, maybe this isn't so bad after all."

Mrs. Peel pulled away from him and slammed her hand against the seemingly solid wall at the back of the recess. "They've got Steed," she said sharply, furious at herself for having to admit it.

Kelly immediately lost the mocking, flirtatious sparkle in his eyes. "When? How?"

"I don't _know _how! One moment he was here, and the next…" She gestured with absolute certainty toward the dim glow of the _Sortie _sign over the door to the main hall. "But I _do _know that when we came in here, there was an executioner standing right there. And now he's gone too."

"An executioner?"

"Yes, an executioner… tall fellow, black hood… large curved double-edged battleaxe in hand. Shall I draw you a diagram?" she snapped.

"No time." Kelly quickly checked the wall himself, but didn't have any better luck in finding a latch of any sort. "Come on, let's go find Scotty. Maybe he can help us piece this whole thing together."

Scott was in the front foyer reading _Le Monde _over Charles de Gaulle's shoulder. "You know, anywhere else in the world, you can get a pop in the face for doin' this," he told the others as they approached.

"Save it," Kelly advised. "We got trouble."

It didn't take Scott long to figure out exactly what that trouble was; he could count to three… in several languages.

"I don't suppose you've seen any of these supposedly inanimate objects walking about?" Mrs. Peel inquired. "In particular, a rather large, muscular one wearing a black hood?"

00o00

And carrying a large, curved, double-edged battleaxe – which was the first thing Steed saw when he regained consciousness. He was lying flat on his back in a workroom strewn with bits and pieces of half-completed wax exhibits – dismembered arms, legs, and other disconcerting bits of anatomy lined the shelves.

"One question…" he began, addressing his hooded host as his vision began to clear. "Would you mind just telling me if you've _already _hit me with that, or if that's still to come?" _Something _had hit him, and that was about all he knew for certain. Well, that, and the fact that the cloaked figure standing over him wasn't Little Red Riding Hood.

He lay on on a table… no, not a table. Any curiosity he may have had about the nature of the missing exhibit in the gallery was satisfied as he took stock of his situation.

With an effort, he turned his head to one side, realizing as he did so that it was the only part of his body he could move at all. His wrists were fastened together above his head; his feet were similarly bound. And in another moment, he recognized the apparatus to which he was so securely fastened. "This actually works, does it?"

The silent, hooded figure stood with gauntleted hands on the spokes of a large wooden wheel attached to the rack. Powerful hands gave the crank less than an eighth of a turn.

Steed felt his shoulders protest immediately. "Not necessary, really… at the moment, I find all my cuffs are precisely the right length…"


	7. Chapter 7

Not even a detailed inspection of the brick wall, conducted under the fragile illumination provided by Kelly's cigarette lighter, turned up so much as a minute chink in the mortar. "Well, he didn't just vanish into thin air," Scotty concluded.

"I think if we find Mrs. Peel's mysteriously mobile mannequin, we'll have a pretty good idea who to ask," Kelly replied.

"That's hardly a cheery thought," Mrs. Peel observed as she joined them.

"Anything?" Kelly asked her.

"I discovered something about that missing exhibit," she reported. "The concierge told me it's been under repair. She can't remember how long, or when it's due back."

"So, what was it?"

She knit her brows slightly, just about the only expression of concern she seemed able to show. Her voice, as always, gave very little away. "A rack."

They wordlessly considered the implications. "I'd like to open the floor to suggestions," Kelly said at last.

"I'd like to offer some," Scott replied. "But I'm dry as a bone."

They were unaware that they were being watched.

00o00

Through the two-way mirror that was part of a tableau depicting the assassination of Jean-Paul Marat by Charlotte Corday, two pair of eyes studied the three agents with great interest. "And the other one?"

"His name is John Steed."

"That's all he told you?"

The younger man was reluctant to admit that not even that much had been gained through coercion; Steed had quite cheerfully given his name – and had been halfway through a moderately credible explanation of his theoretical business in Paris even before their associate, Remi, had begun to apply some truly unpleasant principles of physics to Steed's bone structure. "The rest was lies."

The three agents had no idea how close they were to their quarry. The young man himself had been the one to plunge the knife into Regina Spenser two nights earlier. Maurice LeFond was good at what he did. He took after his father.

00o00

"Mr. Steed."

The man was a little older and a little grayer than he had been in his last official file photograph, but Steed had no trouble recognizing him. "Well… Dr. LeFond, I presume. Forgive me for not getting up." Impossible, under the circumstances, since his hands and feet were currently being forced as far apart as they were ever going to get – he hoped.

"I'm sorry you had to come here and become involved in this."

"I couldn't agree more." Steed flexed his fingers slowly. A few minutes ago, he'd still had some feeling in them, but now the only way he could be sure they were moving was to glance at the small, heavily-draped window that afforded him a dim reflection of his predicament. It was fair to say he'd looked better. "I'm not entirely sure what it is I'm involved _in._"

"Business, Mr. Steed." The doctor seemed the quietly reasonable type, strangely enough – almost like a country gentleman who might take pleasure in dressing up as Saint Nicholas for the benefit of needy orphans.

"Is murder part of the business?"

"Regina Spenser…" LeFond shook his head. "Regrettable."

"I'm sure she'd agree."

"Unfortunately, she discovered our tidy little arrangement, and she was about to warn Robinson. It became necessary to silence her. There are certain people, Mr. Steed, who prefer that I remain in Europe. Some of these people are quite… influential, shall we say."

"A wild guess… some of these people also prefer to lengthen the odds in their own favor by eliminating some of the competition."

"Quite right. So the word goes out that I am receptive to negotiation, and I become something of a worm on a hook to use a conventional illustration." His eyes revealed an almost blissful state of mind. "And suddenly, there are rainbow trout everywhere."

"Bucolic analogy. So, by eliminating us…"

"… I gain substantial financial backing for further experiments. My sponsors, if you will, gain my expertise for their exclusive benefit. It is a most satisfactory relationship."

"From _your _vantage point, perhaps."

"Yes." Another slow, almost melancholic shake of his head. "I admit that your own prospects are very bleak indeed. I hope it will be over quickly."

"I rather hope _not_. I've always fancied the thought of advancing gracefully into my twilight years." Of course, that vision had never included being seven feet tall…

"I hope you will understand that I must insist you share certain information with me regarding your organization."

Remi increased the tension another notch, and Steed wondered fleetingly if wishbones themselves were allowed to make wishes. "Sorry…" he forced out in a remarkably cavalier tone – considering how difficult breathing had become. "Balance of trade… and all that…"

LeFond glanced at his watch. He was running out of time; Steed was holding out longer than expected. He gestured to his hooded companion to follow him, and Remi did so with a slight hesitation – apparently regretting the timing of their departure, with his work unfinished.

That left Steed alone. Considering the caliber of the hulking, faceless behemoth's company, not to mention the homicidal Dr. LeFond's propensity for cold-blooded murder, he reasoned he was ultimately better off that way.

He flexed his numbed fingers slowly as he considered his situation. In order to free himself, he had to reach the lever holding the wooden gear in place, and that was completely out of the question…

… or was it?

Steed realized the murky reflection that told him his fingers were moving also told him his umbrella was propped up against the head of the rack, only inches from those fingers. There was an outside chance he might be able to reach it.

Using the hazy mirror image as his only guide, he strained to maneuver his fingers to grasp the curved handle.

He couldn't feel anything at all, but he could hear the handle slip sideways an inch or two against the edge of the rack when he groped and missed. One more clumsy move like that, and it was almost certain the umbrella would clatter to the floor. He couldn't afford to lose it.

He tried again, more slowly this time, making sure he could see his hands in position before he started to close his grasp.


	8. Chapter 8

If the layer of dust on its curved latch was any indication, the door leading off the rear balcony was little-used. "_Défense d'entrer_", Scott read aloud.

"Which means, 'this way to the party' in French," Kelly nodded. He tested the latch, and found it unlocked.

Mrs. Peel stood just behind him, her arms folded. "Could it be we're expected?"

"We'll soon find out." It was obvious they had nothing to gain by staying in the public galleries; to find Steed, they had to search the out-of-the-way areas. Finding that exhibit 'under repair' might well mean finding Steed. Kelly risked a glance at the Englishwoman, who met his gaze head-on, as if she knew what he was going to say and had already decided that she didn't like it. "There's not the slightest chance we could convince you not to…"

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that." She stepped past him, gave the door a purposeful shove inward, and moved into the darkness, feeling tentatively with one foot until she found the first in a series of steps leading downward.

Scott gestured for his partner to follow her. "You want to argue with her, or you want to walk without a limp?"

As they worked their way down, Kelly considered the seemingly endless possible scenarios awaiting them. The way things were going, he wouldn't be surprised to find a masked phantom playing _Frère Jacques _on an antique pipe organ down here. A bunch of people dumb enough to grope their way down a pitch-dark stone stairway in search of a _rack_, of all things, deserved about just about anything that happened to them, didn't they?

A door opened, and a pool of light appeared below them; the three agents froze. Voices – getting closer.

Dr. LeFond stepped out into the faintly illuminated area. His hushed monologue sounded like instructions to his companion, who stood silently in the shadows. Scotty and Mrs. Peel seemed to be picking up every word, but Kelly was completely lost in the rapid-fire French – until the last instruction. After all, every secret agent in the world learns to recognize – in _any _language – the words that mean '_kill him'_.

You didn't have to be a Rhodes Scholar for that one.

The doctor's companion disappeared back through the door from where the two men had first emerged, and LeFond himself departed through another that led, judging from the traffic noises, out to the boulevard.

"Somebody ought to follow him," Scott risked in a hushed whisper.

"Go for it, Herman," Kelly nodded.

"You gonna be all right?"

"Who knows?"

Kelly and Mrs. Peel followed the hooded man – which posed a new problem when they found four more doors off the corridor on the other side of the one they'd just watched him use. "Just like the fun house at Palisades Park," the American grumbled.

Mrs. Peel gestured to the two doors on the left. "Go for it, Herman." She shrugged when the man gave her a startled glance. "That is the vernacular, isn't it?" She opened the first door cautiously, then vanished into the darkness on the other side.

Steed had his umbrella in hand and was awkwardly attempting to hook the handle around the lever when a most welcome sight walked through the door. "Mrs. Peel!"

"So this is where you've got to." She stood next to the rack, arms folded, perplexed, as she appraised the unusual situation. "Now, how on earth do I get you out of this thing?" She located the lever locking the gears and released it. The excruciating tension released, Steed gratefully took the first deep breath he'd been allowed since Remi had begun his work. "How's that?"

"I would have had it in another moment…"

She eyed him dubiously as she began to untie his feet. "Certain?"

"Guardedly optimistic…"

"I take it you're not hurt."

"Well, not for lack of opportunity…" Over her shoulder, he saw Remi enter the room, battleaxe in hand. "Mrs. Peel!"

She turned in time to duck the heavy axe that sliced the air inches above her head. Before Remi had time to hoist it for another blow, she braced herself against the rack with both hands and delivered a two-footed kick to the masked man's mid-section, neatly doubling him over.

When Remi lunged at her again, bringing the axe down disturbingly close to her left foot, she side-stepped quickly, forcing him to turn as well.

Her next kick, this time to the area of Remi's jawbone, sent him backward across the rack. Steed, hands still bound, squared both feet against the would-be executioner's back and pushed, hurling him face-first against the tiny room's near wall.

The battleaxe crashed to the floor. Remi was momentarily stunned, but recovered quickly and staggered toward Mrs. Peel, both gauntleted hands wide and grasping for her throat.

She forced his huge hands back; he clumsily flung her against a table full of wax body parts, which flew in all directions. When she came back at him, it was with a cold, slippery wax leg in her grasp. She broke it over Remi's head; that gave her an extra second to get into position and send him flying with a judo flip.

Remi nearly bowled Kelly over when he landed; the American had just entered, and barely had time to move aside before the bulky form crashed into the doorframe. He raised both hands, prepared to bring them down on the back of Remi's thick neck – but before he could strike the blow, Remi went down like a two-hundred-pound sack of flour.

"I apologize," Kelly said to Mrs. Peel.

"For what?"

"For everything I've been thinking, but didn't say."

Steed pulled his hands from the loosened ropes, sat up slowly, and tested each arm and leg for serious damage before standing and beginning to straighten his attire. "Pity he's out cold," he said. "We might want to ask him where LeFond's gone off to."

"His hotel," Mrs. Peel filled him in. "We overheard his conversation with that one. He's expecting a call."

"From his bankrollers, no doubt. After all, it _is _payday."

"What for?"

"Hippocratic oath notwithstanding, the good doctor firmly intended to kill me." Steed adjusted his tie in the hazy reflection of the curtained window, then pressed a hand to the small of his back. "Pity he's not a chiropractor."

Kelly Robinson pulled the black hood from the head of the unconscious Remi. "This is all starting to make some weird kind of sense." He tossed the mask to the floor. "Scotty's tailing the doc back to his hotel."

Steed took a quick look around the dingy room. "I wonder what's become of my bowler?"

"Are you sure you're all right?" Mrs. Peel inquired.

"Why do you ask?"

In another moment, he knew exactly why: he was looking down at her from a totally unaccustomed height.

Then he recognized the reason for the discrepancy, stepped off the platform on which the rack was mounted, and - thankfully – found himself at his usual elevation. "Gave me a bit of a start."

"I shouldn't wonder." She nudged Remi with her foot. "What do we do with this?"

"A nice roomy cage at the zoo comes to mind," Kelly suggested.

"No time."

With insincere apologies to Remi – whom they left trussed up inside a heavy cabinet – and to the nearly completed wax figure of Lord Mountbatten, from whom Steed 'borrowed' the necessary replacement for his missing bowler, the three made a hasty exit from the museum. A clean-up crew would be by in short order to take care of Remi; when they arrived, they would find an extremely uncooperative prisoner. Sore losers were common in this business – but none were more damnably testy than those who had just been laid out by curvaceous redheads in high heels.


	9. Chapter 9

"Welcome to Phone Tap 101."

The audio from Dr. LeFond's hotel room was as clear as fine Waterford. "I'm impressed, Mr. Scott," Kelly told his partner. "What do you do for an encore?"

"Well, I thought about trying a verse or two of _Silent Night _on the spoons, but modesty forbids." Scott smiled politely and shook his head at the glass of wine Steed offered him. "No thanks, man. Not my thing."

"I admire a man of principle." Steed held the glass up to the light, studying it with a connoisseur's practiced eye. "On the other hand, I also admire an excellent claret."

Scott had done more than follow Dr. LeFond to his hotel. He had also managed to insert a listening device in the handset of the good doctor's telephone – allowing both teams of agents to listen in on the man's every move from the comfort of the Americans' suite at the _Hôtel Foch._

"I think the party's a little on the premature side," Kelly commented, also passing on a glass of wine. He crumpled a message from the front desk and tossed it toward the wastebasket. It didn't go in, and he didn't care. "_Les gendarmes _apparently would appreciate another few thousand words with me about Regina. I'm not really going to be up for a bash until I can get them off my back."

The relentlessly businesslike demeanor of the Americans did nothing to dampen the celebratory spirits of the two British agents. After all, the honor of a very good claret was at stake. Emma Peel raised her glass to Steed. "_A votre santé._"

He did likewise. "_Et à la vôtre_."

"This is my worst nightmare," Kelly muttered as he turned to Scotty for a second opinion. "Am I crazy, or are they? You call it."

"We should know the whole score as soon as that phone call comes in." Scott adjusted the volume on his receiver. "But right now, I'd have to say we're not doing too badly. Mrs. Peel took out that fugitive from a hallucination, that what's-his-name…"

"Remi," Steed supplied.

"So that's one down. That leaves Maurice LeFond at the wax museum, and the clean-up boys probably already have his shoelaces tied together by now. As for the good doctor himself, we'll have his number as soon as he gets his call telling him when and where to pick up the payola for getting rid of Steed."

Mrs. Peel crossed her ankles on the arm of the divan and shook her head regretfully, cradling her glass of claret like a stage prop. "Alas, poor Steed; I knew him, Horatio…"

"A bit premature of them," her partner agreed. "Fortunately."

"And then, that's it," Kelly wrapped up. "No loose ends, no fuss, no muss."

The strident ring of Jacques LeFond's telephone made them all jump – even those who were trying not to show their tension. Conversation came to an immediate halt as the Frenchman picked up his end. "_Allo…_"

It was a short exchange – a single muffled sentence spoken by his contact, and repeated by LeFond in a tight monotone. _Deuxième étage, Tour Eiffel, midi et demi_. Then a dial tone. Then silence.

"Intriguing," Mrs. Peel remarked.

"Also potentially dangerous," from Steed.

Robinson nodded. "I'm with dangerous. Second floor of the Eiffel Tower's about four hundred feet above ground level, lots of dead ends, lots of mid-air."

"Be thankful it's not the Goodyear Blimp," Scott advised.

"We should watch all the lifts and stairs," Steed said.

"Then we'll need a few more players. It's about all we can do to cover the infield."

"A position of high visibility," Mrs. Peel mused. "And there's a restaurant at that level. Be a good idea to have that covered as well."

"Charming," Steed brightened. "I hear their _coquilles Saint Jacques _is surperb."

Scott shook his head. "Whoa. You actually think you can just hang around up there in plain sight? LeFond might think he got rid of _you _already, but he knows the rest of us are still around. He's not gonna let his guard down."

"Down, no," Mrs. Peel agreed. "But chances are, he won't be looking about him for anyone except his contact."

"Chances are?" Kelly echoed, hardly believing his ears. "Lady, that sounds a little optimistic to me. What do you think, Scotty?"

"Look, we're not in Kansas anymore," Scott attempted to explain. "This is serious business. This guy's a killer. 'Chances are' is something you say when you're playing the lottery. It just doesn't work with this stuff."

"You're suggesting we all traipse up there in dark glasses and trenchcoats?"

"Colorful," Steed nodded. "Although a bit on the obvious side."

Scott was about at the end of his patience. "No, what I'm saying is…"

"Covert action. Old-fashioned stuff like that." Kelly reached over to turn the receiver off. "Maybe you ought to try it sometime."

"Doesn't it make more sense to have a reason to be up there in the first place? On the inside, so to speak?" Mrs. Peel wanted to know.

"It makes sense to stay out of the spotlight. Period."

"This isn't getting us anywhere," Scott, the resident diplomat, announced, calling a halt to the mounting hostilities. "This is not a contest, and it's not a game. It's real life. We've got a good agent and an innocent man dead, and a nut on the loose who'd like nothing better than to lay all four of us out and turn in our secret agent decoder rings for a little cold, hard cash in a Swiss bank account. Can we just stop fighting with each other for a few minutes, and aim it at LeFond?"

"I'm all for that," his partner agreed. "I'm just trying to convince Mrs. Peel here not to do anything that's likely to get us all killed. We can wrap this up in a couple of hours if we can curb the temptation to get cute."

Steed set his glass down… well, it must be serious, then. "Oh, I've never known Mrs. Peel to get cute. She may be ascerbic on occasion, but cute…" He frowned thoughtfully and shook his head.

"So far, all we've really accomplished together is getting on each other's nerves," Kelly shot back. "I've only got one or two left myself, and I really don't need anybody leaning on them in a life or death situation."

He was talking about Emma Peel, and she had no trouble realizing that – or responding to it. "Perhaps you're in the wrong line of work. After all, you're the one who managed to become a suspect in this case in the first place."

"Drop it, Kel," Scott advised before Robinson could retaliate. "Okay, listen… we agree on this much: that we don't agree on anything. We're not getting anywhere. It doesn't matter _who _gets LeFond, or _how _we get him. The important thing is _getting _him."

Kelly got to his feet. "Then why don't we just _do _it? I mean it. Split up. Whatever it takes. Let's just get this assignment over with and then we'll never have to see each other again. It can't happen soon enough for me. You two go do any hare-brained thing you want. If you get him, fine. If we get him, that's fine too."

"All right with me," Mrs. Peel nodded curtly.

"We'll leave you to it, then," Steed made it unanimous.

Maybe, Scott thought as he and Kelly spend toward the Eiffel Tower in a taxi a few minutes later, things would work out better this way. They were close enough to the end of the assignment; there was no compelling reason to work together if a whole lot of haggling was all that was likely to come of it.

This had been one for the books. And unfortunately, it wasn't quite over yet.


	10. Chapter 10

Situated between the _Champ de Mars _and the River Seine, the nearly thousand-foot Eiffel Tower was an imposing image against the noonday sky. On the second-level observation deck, the wind was brisk and warm, the panorama crystal clear and breathtaking in all directions. All of Paris lay at one's feet.

Two of the people on the second level were far more interested in the silhouette of Jacques LeFond, who stood in a phone booth near the rail and stared off into the distance. So far, so good. Or so the two Americans thought, at any rate.

"Hey, Kel?" Scott began conversationally after they had waited in silence for several minutes.

"Yeah?" Kelly wore sunglasses – his only concession to the classic spy wardrobe. Funny how being unable to see someone's eyes made it so difficult to recognize a person. "What's up?"

"You remember what we all said before, back at the hotel?"

"I do."

"What do you suppose those two are up to?"

"Probably just exactly what they feel like doing."

"You mean, all that stuff we tried to tell them was crazy?"

"I imagine."

"Kel?"

"Yeah?"

"You win."

Kelly followed his partner's subtle gesture in the direction of a nearby souvenir concession, and felt his blood pressure rise a notch. No doubt about it – the shapely saleswoman behind the counter was none other than Emma Peel. "Oh, for the love of…"

"Kelly, come on, now, don't… we agreed we wouldn't…"

Too late. He was gone.

Mrs. Peel greeted Kelly with a vacant, noncommittal look in her eyes, as if she'd never seen him before in her life. "_Bonjour, monsieur._"

"Yeah, yeah…" It was all he could do to keep a forced smile on his face as he glanced around to see if they were being watched. "What are you doing here?"

She flicked a feather duster across the row of miniature bronze Eiffel Towers on the shelf behind her. "I'm sorry, I thought you might recognize work when you saw it."

"Oh, that's very funny. I mean it, you ought to forget about pushing picture postcards and just headline at the _Comédie Française _full-time. In case it slipped your mind, Mrs. Peel, LeFond's got dollar signs for eyeballs. He spots you up here, and you're nothing but a paycheck to him. You know that, don't you? That guy's trying to _kill _us."

"Then don't you think the two of us standing together make twice as appealing a target?"

She was infuriating when she was right. Kelly moved away from the souvenir booth, silently counting to ten.

If Mrs. Peel insisted on sticking her pretty neck out, he supposed it was her business. Personally, he preferred leaving himself an out. An observation platform four hundred feet in the air wasn't laden with options: up and down were the only two directions one could go. And, as he reminded himself with the briefest of glances both ways, neither of those options really excited him.

_Up _was particularly not on his list. The third platform was another five hundred feet above his head, barely a postage stamp against the clear sky. That, he thought, was the deadest dead-end he'd ever seen.

00o00

Mrs. Peel recognized Dr. LeFond when she spotted him. Just to be certain, she removed a compact and lipstick from her purse and turned her back, pretending to freshen her make-up while she held the mirror so she could get a good look and still stay out of his line of sight.

It was LeFond, all right, in a phone booth about thirty feet from her post.

She ducked into the small storage area behind the concession booth, picked up the telephone there, and dialed the restaurant. When the reservations desk picked up, she kept her voice low. "_Je voudrais parler avec…_"

"Put it down, Mrs. Peel."

The voice, close behind her, meant business. She slowly set the receiver back into its cradle. She had a sinking feeling that things were a lot more complicated than any of them had imagined. "Maurice LeFond, I presume."

"Very good. It seems you know a great deal."

She turned slowly. "That your father is a murderer, for example?"

He nodded, thoughtfully running his left thumb over the hilt of the knife in his hand. "As am I, Mrs. Peel. You might say it runs in the family."

"Regina Spenser." It was a guess, but apparently a good one; he didn't deny it. Emma Peel found her lipstick in the pocket of her dress, worked the cap off, and pushed it up half an inch. Her proximity to the wall covered the motion nicely. Now, if she could just…

"I would advise you to carefully do everything I tell you to do." Maurice LeFond stepped out of the shadows. "And I would like to start by having you turn and walk very slowly and quietly out of here. Please believe me when I tell you I will not hesitate to use this knife if you give me any trouble at all."

It was easy enough to believe. For the moment, at least, she had little choice but to obey. She couldn't count on his reflexes being less than a match for her own in these close quarters.

Her turn would come. Of course, it would have been preferable if she had been able to reach Steed in the restaurant. Vastly preferable.

The stairs leading to the third platform were right outside the back door of the concession. Mrs. Peel glanced around her as the wind tossed her hair. Not a familiar face in sight. Even Robinson would have been better than nothing.

Then Maurice spoke again. "Climb."

00o00

Steed glanced at his watch. Nearly a quarter of one. He'd expected to hear from Mrs. Peel twenty minutes ago, but repeated inquiries to the waiter turned up no messages for him – from anyone.

Obviously, it was time to stop by the souvenir stand in person.

There was only one concessionaire on duty, a heavy-set woman in her mid-sixties who greeted him cheerfully.

"_Bonjour, mademoiselle,_" he replied with a gracious tip of his hat, eliciting a matronly giggle and making the woman's cheeks flush a deep pink. "I wonder… there was a young lady working here a few minutes ago…"

"Ah, _oui, Madame _Peel."

"That's right."

"I am sorry, _monsieur, _but she is not here."

"Do you know where she's gone?"

"_Non, monsieur. _But I did see her talking with a handsome young man several minutes ago."

Steed raised an eyebrow. "You don't say."

"Oh, _oui, _very handsome. Perhaps they…" She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. "This is Paris…"

"Yes, yes, it is, isn't it? Well, thank you very much." He turned away before the look of vague concern took the place of his best smile. Maybe this _was _Paris – but he sincerely doubted that was the reason Mrs. Peel had left her post. The handsome young man could have been just a friendly stranger buying a souvenir.

In any case, he needed to find her – and quickly.

One brisk turn around the observation deck that turned up not one sign of his partner, and Steed was even more concerned. Surely, she would have told him if their plan was to be altered in some way.

If she'd been able.


	11. Chapter 11

"Heads up, Paul Revere," Scotty warned. "The British are coming."

Kelly looked up, and caught sight of Steed. "Right you are, old chap," he agreed. "Well, I'm not so sure I need to be told I don't know what I'm doing again quite this soon. How do you feel about that?"

"I could take a pass on it myself, Ace."

Jacques LeFond had been doing a remarkably good job of looking out over the _Champ de Mars _without the slightest indication he was waiting for anyone. In fact, he hadn't moved a muscle. His stance was helpful in that he hadn't had the opportunity to catch a glimpse of _them, _either, and the two Americans were happy to wait patiently until his contact arrived. Then, they would be quite happy to put the pinch on both of them, as quickly and as neatly as possible.

Steed joined them with only the slightest attempt to be inconspicuous. "Have either of you gentlemen seen Mrs. Peel?"

"As a matter of fact, I saw her a few minutes ago," Kelly said calmly, never letting his gaze stray from LeFond in the phone booth.

"At the souvenir stall?"

"The very place. Basically, she told me to get lost, and basically I did that, which made me just as happy as it made her. Now, if you don't mind, we've got a job to do here." He gestured toward the solitary figure in the phone booth.

"Lefond."

"Don't worry about your Iron Maiden. She's probably got her own spy scope on him from across the platform or somethin'."

"That wasn't the _plan," _Steed insisted. He glanced at LeFond again. Something wasn't right at all. If he could only put his finger on it, he might be able to determine what had happened to Mrs. Peel. "Something's wrong."

Scott checked his watch; it was well past the appointed hour. "Well, Kel, he just might be right about that. LeFond's contact should have been here over a half-hour ago."

"Maybe he got here before we did."

"Then why is the guy still standing there? He ought to be on his way to the bank, or the racetrack, or wherever he likes to makes his cash deposits."

"And you've been watching him the whole time?" Steed asked.

"Every single second."

"This is beginning to look like a trap," Robinson conjectured in a cautious tone. "Opinions, gentlemen?"

Steed started toward the phone booth. "If this _is _a trap, I don't think we're the first to be caught up in it."

Jacques LeFond came out of the phone booth quite readily when Steed pushed the door open – but he came out horizontally. Judging from the thin abrasion on his neck, his killer had used a garrote. And judging from the horrified scream she emitted, it was the first time the nearby young lady had ever seen a murder victim.

The two Americans were now convinced that things were _not _going according to plan. Kelly ran back to the souvenir booth where he'd last seem Emma Peel, Scott close on his heels. The elderly woman who had flirted with Steed earlier had left to check out the fuss at the telephone booth, so there was no one about to object to a fast search of the entire concession.

Kelly had half-expected to find Mrs. Peel right there, just as she had been earlier, leisurely dusting paperweights, sharpening her tongue… But she was gone, all right.

There was a new player on the field. A deadly one.

"Anything?" Scott asked when he'd caught up.

Robinson slammed a closed fist against the countertop, a gesture of blind frustration. "Damn it…"

Steed appeared in the doorway of the rear exit. "Out here."

Sure enough, there on one of the steel girders was the sign they'd been looking for – hastily drawn in one of the most popular lipstick colors available at Harrod's cosmetics counter – an arrow pointing up.

Up the steep flight of steps leading to the third platform.

00o00

"I fail to see what you expect to gain from this." Emma Peel slowed her pace again, just as she'd done several times since they'd begun their climb, but a rough shove from behind spurred her on. "After all, everything's in the open now. Your father…"

"My father was a fool!"

Maurice LeFond's use of the past tense didn't escape her notice. Neither had the strident sounds of mass panic rising from the second tier a few moments before. What if…?

No. She shut out a sudden uneasiness caused when she heard police whistles on the deck below. No sense borrowing trouble; she already had plenty of her own.

"His precious science," Maurice went on. "And all the while, _I _was the one in control. He was nothing but a figurehead."

"Really?" Keeping a conversation going while climbing a thousand-foot tower with a knife at one's back as a bit of a challenge, but Emma Peel had always been one to rise to a challenge. During the entire climb, she worked on contingency plans – estimates of how far Maurice was behind her, what her chances were of turning and disarming him before he could retaliate, the likelihood of his having another weapon in reserve… it was all very mathematical, actually. But so far, the equation hadn't come out in her favor. "So, when he realized he was being used and decided to object, you killed him, too?"

"_Move_, Mrs. Peel. _Faster_."

From their lofty perch on the open metal staircase, she couldn't make out details of anything happening below; all she could distinguish were crowds, and police, and screaming – lots of screaming. She had to think of a way to slow their ascent. Apparently, he intended to get her to the third platform, and then…

Well, she wasn't in any particular hurry to find out what came after that.

The wind got worse the higher they went up the seemingly endless staircase; her stylish shoes had been meant for kinder terrain. _Ah_… that was a thought.

She managed a convincing stumble, and fell to her hands and knees on the next landing. "I said move!" Maurice ordered. "Get up!"

"These shoes…"

He yanked her left shoe off her foot and furiously hurled it over the rail. She didn't want to look, but the height was mesmerizing, dizzying, almost hypnotic. She couldn't resist watching the shoe fall, spiraling down toward the lush green of the _Champ de Mars _so far below. My, it _was _a long way down…

"I've solved your problem," the man snapped at her. "Now, on your feet!"

"I suppose I should get rid of the other as well…" She reached down, removed her right shoe, and hit him with it squarely in the face.

Maurice staggered back a step as she scrambled to her feet. Recovering, he struck out blindly with his knife. A catch, the sound of tearing cloth.

Mrs. Peel pulled her arm back; her sleeve was in tatters, but the thrust had been short, and the only real casualty was her silk blouse. She braced herself against the handrail and aimed a kick at his left hand.

The knife clattered to the metal catwalk, then bounced down the short flight of steps behind Maurice, skidding to a stop on the next landing down.

He didn't go after it. Instead, he pulled a gun from his jacket pocket and leveled it at her. She turned and started to run up the stairs, knowing even as she did that she had just lost the game. It was point-blank range; there was nowhere to hide.

The expected shot came – not from Maurice, but _at _him, and from above. A quick glance skyward revealed Alexander Scott crouched on the zigzag staircase on the opposite pylon. His shot was a miss; the bullet pinged harmlessly off one of the iron girders. But it gave Mrs. Peel the few extra seconds she needed; she rounded a corner and kept running up the steps, out of Maurice's line of fire.

Scotty ducked down behind the pylon when Maurice returned his fire. His had been a tricky shot; he'd had to fire right past Emma Peel to get anywhere near Maurice. With her out of the way, he had a better chance of hitting his target; there wasn't much on the open tower for the man to use as cover.

Then again, he reminded himself as another bullet glanced off a crossbrace near his head, there wasn't much to cover _him_, either.

Kelly ran even faster when he heard the shots. Scotty had gone up the stairs on the other side – and, the tennis player was forced to admit, had quickly outdistanced him. So maybe Scotty now held the new world's record in the vertical hundred-yard dash – but from the sound of the gunfire being exchanged, his partner wasn't winning any sharp-shooting medals today. This crazy pile of scrap metal was about the worst place in the world for a shoot-out: wide-open, high up, and devoid of escape avenues.

On her way up the stairs, Mrs. Peel met Steed – on his way _down_. "How did you manage _that_?" she gasped, more than a little out of breath from her rapid climb.

"The lift," he replied.

"I should have known. Where's Robinson?"

"Below us, on his way up. You all right?"

She nodded. "Rather surprising, isn't it?"

They both ducked when a bullet ricocheted off the nearby girder, coming just a little too close for comfort. "Getting more so all the time," Steed agreed.

Scotty was in trouble. His automatic had jammed, and while he wrestled with the mechanism in an effort to clear it, he was a sitting duck. Kelly put on one last burst of speed, and reached the landing just as Maurice took aim.

He dove for the Frenchman's legs, tackling him and bringing him down hard just as he fired; the shot went wild, and the gun flew from his grasp.

They struggled desperately, tumbling down the short flight to the landing below. Kelly felt the edge of that landing pressing into the middle of his back; he was looking upward toward the lacy iron peak of the tower, past Maurice's cold, calculating stare. He tried to throw his opponent off him, but something was wrong… things were going gray around the edges… he couldn't breathe…

Maurice still had the garrote… and one size fits all. He'd wrapped it securely around the American's throat in one smooth, practiced motion, drawing it tighter and tighter until the hands that strained to loosen it fell slack.

The Frenchman pulled himself to his feet, dragging the insert form of Kelly Robinson with him. The man wasn't dead – not yet, anyway – but there was no time to finish him off with the garrote.

Scotty cursed. He could see it all. His gun was still jammed, and he was too far away; he could only watch helplessly as Maurice LeFond bent Kelly's limp body over the waist-high railing six hundred feet above the _Champ de Mars, _then reached down to grasp the unconscious man's legs.

Damn it, what the hell was he supposed to _do_?

A split second later, an umbrella came down squarely on the back of Maurice's neck, knocking the breath out of him. He let go of Robinson and turned; the curved umbrella handle struck him in the abdomen and doubled him over.

When he straightened, he hurled himself at Steed – who stepped aside, and watched his opponent barrel directly into a massive iron girder.

The Englishman couldn't resist the temptation. "_Olé!_" he exclaimed with a little matador's flourish.

Emma Peel hurriedly pulled Kelly off the railing and sat him down with his back against the stairs. He was coming around, coughing, and pulling weakly at his shirt collar.

"How is he?" Steed asked with a glance in their direction.

"Alive," she replied, loosening the American's collar. "Maurice?"

Steed turned. Maurice was gone.

LeFond had vaulted the low railing, and was making his unsteady, desperate way across the open network of girders toward the opposite stairway. Scotty was on his way down those stairs, moving as quickly as he ever had in his life, determined to intercept the man if he managed to work his way across the inner spans of the tower.

"He'll never make it," Steed predicted.

There was only one thought in Maurice LeFond's mind. He _had _to make it. He _had _to, or else it was all over. He had no choice.

He locked his arms around a horizontal crossbrace and leaped across the vast emptiness of the elevator shaft, all that stood between him and freedom.

The sound as he fell was almost completely obliterated by the wind rushing through the iron framework of the most famous landmark in France. The four agents barely heard it at all.

Hearing wouldn't have made any difference. There was nothing any of them could do. He was gone.


	12. Chapter 12

Getting away from the Eiffel Tower without entanglements with the local police was an operation in itself. In the end, the police had plenty to keep them occupied – thanks to the weekend tourist crowds, the dead man in the second-level telephone booth, and the added drama of Maurice LeFond's body plummeting past the elevator on its way down to the third level and landing solidly on top of the ascending car.

In the ensuing confusion, the four foreign spies slipped from the fray relatively unnoticed. They caught an elevator to ground level, and less than twenty minutes later were strolling across the _Champ de Mars_ – while behind them, police sirens multiplied as every available _gendarme _in the Parisian police force responded to the call to the _Tour Eiffel._

"I almost hesitate to ask." Mrs. Peel hobbled lopsidedly on Steed's arm, with only one high-heeled shoe. "But is this the end of it?"

"It better be," Scott replied.

"I'm gonna go right out and buy some clip-on ties," Kelly added. "I mean it, no more slip knots." He ran his fingers over the abrasion on his throat. "This one was just a little too close, my friend."

"Well, well, what have we here?" Steed leaned over the edge of the duck pond and, with the tip of his umbrella, deftly retrieved a familiar-looking patent leather shoe. "This must be your lucky day, Mrs. Peel."

"You can write it off on your income taxes," Scotty told her. "No kidding, it's job-related. They've got a special line for stuff you lose when in official pursuit of a lunatic on the Eiffel Tower."

Steed knelt, poured the silty water out of the battered shoe, and slipped it onto his partner's foot with exaggerated gallantry. He smiled up at her. "You must be Cinderella."

She fought a matching smile. "_Really_, Steed…"

"You know," Scotty said to Kelly, "there's only one real winner this time."

"Do tell." Kelly's voice broke; he cleared his throat and tried again. "And who, pray tell, might that be?"

"Oh, go on, guess."

His partner eyed him suspiciously. "You assume I am indeed in the mood for your levity, sir. Let me run over the score for you. We lost an agent. We lost an Austrian tennis player."

"We lost two complete madmen," Emma Peel added, walking more evenly now, although she did squish a little. "One of whom was greedy and desperate enough to set his own father up to take a fall."

"We were set upon by a faceless executioner," Steed recalled.

"Run ragged up and down the Eiffel Tower," Mrs. Peel went on.

"Argued over every little thing for the past forty-eight hours straight," Kelly supplied.

"Been stretched out, shot at, strangled, held at knife-point, and beaten senseless," Scott nodded.

"I give up, Mr. Scott," Kelly said at last. "Who, in your considered scholarly opinion, actually managed to come out _ahead _in this fiasco?"

Scott gestured to Steed. "_Think _about it, man. He's in Paris with _her_… and I'm here with _you._"

Emma Peel laughed.

Kelly took a few moments to savor the sound – as he probably would have done if the stone wall behind him had suddenly laughed. "Well, I guess we didn't work so bad together in the end, at that," he admitted, glancing appreciatively at the beautiful British spy. "It could have been worse."

She brushed her windblown hair back from her face. "You never know. Perhaps we'll do it again someday."

Kelly Robinson shook his head with absolute, incontestable assuredness. "Not on your life, Mrs. Peel. _Not _on your _life_."

THE END

A/N: Thanks to all who read, and a special thanks to all who took the time to comment! I really appreciate your taking the time to check out my story.


End file.
